Taking Stories From Your Eyes
by Kamikaze Pedestrian
Summary: She takes a step forward to give Smellerbee the hug Katara is sure she must need, but when she tenses, visibly uncomfortable, Katara changes her mind and instead places a hand on Smellerbee’s upper arm, squeezing softly. Katara/Smellerbee


The movement is slight, a shift in the shadows that cuts itself short, recoils and retreats almost instantly, but during that brief moment before it withdraws into the dark between the houses, it gives itself away. Katara stops, holds her breath, listens and waits.

The sky is cloudless and the moon is full, making the narrow, slate-covered path leading over the grass-covered backyard shimmer with silver light. It's a warm night, and the wind is calm. From outside the wall surrounding the estate come the evening sounds of the upper ring; carriages passing over cobblestone, restrained voices, the fragile melody of a lute in the distance. Ba Sing Se's aristocracy is slowly coming to rest. The air is light and fresh, with the scent of afternoon showers still lingering. There are puddles on the lawn, droplets clinging to the grass. The moon is strong in her blood and the water in the pools quivers when she bends her fingers. She is not afraid.

She is not afraid, but as the minutes pass, Katara grows impatient. If whoever is hiding themselves won't make their move, she'll draw them out. Water flies to circle her palms as soon as she's finished the thought, solidifying into ice that she sculpts into needle-sharp spikes with the speed of second nature habit. She flings them into the shadows, but a little higher than she would have, had she truly wanted to hit. She'll rarely fight to kill, especially not against unknown opponents.

The ice shatters against the wall with a deafening crash and a shower of glimmering splinters. Immediately after, a shape emerges. A figure, a person, running quickly over the grass. There is something vaguely familiar about it, about the wiry limbs and crouching posture, but Katara has already readied her stance and prepared her next blow, aiming the waterwhip for her opponent's feet.

It isn't without an inwardly nod of admiration for the agility with which the other person evades the attack that Katara pulls back and makes herself ready to strike again. But when the figure runs fully out into the light and halts there, holding out a hand in a parrying gesture, she hesitates.

"Katara, stop! It's me!"

She knows that voice. It's a voice you don't forget.

"Smellerbee?" Katara lowers her arms. The water falls on the tiles, splashing the hem of her dress. "What are you doing here?"

The girl doesn't answer at once, shaking ice-shards out of her hair and adjusting her armor with fumbling, awkward hands. When Katara walks up closer to her, she can see that her face is flushed red.

"I heard you guys were here," Smellerbee finally says. "So I thought—" She trails off. She doesn't look Katara in the eyes, not even in the face, her gaze travelling from the moon to the trees to settle on her own shoes.

Katara understands. Had it been her, she would have felt embarrassed, too.

There is no need for that here, however. The ones who might have laughed aren't around, and though the comical side of the situation isn't lost on her, what Katara mostly feels is relief.

"I'm so glad to know you're okay." She takes a step forward to give Smellerbee the hug Katara is sure she must need, but when she tenses, visibly uncomfortable, Katara changes her mind and instead places a hand on Smellerbee's upper arm, squeezing softly. "How is Longshot?"

"He's fine."

Other questions hang in the air between them for a second before the silence sweeps them away. Katara ignores them, though they burn in the back of her mind. She already knows the answer.

"Why come this way? Why not the entrance?" she asks in their place.

"This house is too fancy." Smellerbee crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back on her heels, glaring up at the ceramic badgermoles decorating the sweeping ridges of the roof as though they have personally offended her. "Thought I was sure to get chased away at the door."

Katara makes a brave effort to hide her amusement. She doesn't quite succeed.

"Did you think _I _would chase you away, too? Is that why you were hiding?"

There's a pause while Smellerbee scrutinizes her gloves, scratching at a mud stain.

"I just felt so dumb. Sneaking in like that. I wanted to leave before anyone noticed, but. " She groans a little, the color returning to her cheeks. "That didn't exactly work out."

"Well, I'm happy it didn't. Please, come on in," Katara says with a smile, trying to make it her warmest, her friendliest, her most encouraging and inviting. Smellerbee shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

"I don't know."

"The others would love to see you."

"No." Her voice is firm. She's made her decision. "I have to go back, or Longshot's going to worry. But thanks." She forms her mouth into a small smile in return, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Katara doesn't insist. They were never too friendly, the two Freedom Fighters. Not rude or unpleasant, but they kept to themselves, one step behind their leader. Suspicious of the world, of anyone not belonging to their group. In a way, Katara can understand that, too, even though she doesn't relate.

But she isn't willing to say goodbye just yet.

"What are you two going to do now?" She hopes it will require a somewhat longer answer and keep the girl for a few minutes more. It works.

"We're going back to the hideout," Smellerbee says, pursing her lips around the last word, holding on to it for a second before continuing. "Or what's left of it, anyway. See how many of the old gang we can find. Then we'll free the valley and the town. The right way this time. Not like before."

She stands with her back a little straighter, with her chin pushed out. This isn't a whim, it's a calculated plan, Katara can tell, and the urge to fight is suddenly strong in her as well.

"We'll help."

When Smellerbee shakes her head, the dismissal stings a little.

"This is Freedom Fighter business. Jet started the fight, and we're going to finish it. For him."

"I'm so sorry I couldn't save him."

Katara frowns at her own words. They come out too quickly, stumble on each other. She hadn't meant to say them at all.

The pain flashing over Smellerbee's face is cold and sharp. Not one bit dulled.

"You can't save everyone."

"I should have tried harder. There must have been _something _–"

"Katara," Smellerbee interrupts. Her fists are clenched, but there's no anger in her voice. "You saved the entire _world_. It's enough."

She's wrong. There's so much. So much she should have done, so much yet to do. So much that has been damaged. The shadows under Smellerbee's eyes are deep and dark, and there are lines framing her mouth that weren't there before.

They're thin creases in her skin formed by the set of her jaw, by the way she grits her teeth together. The muscles in her cheeks are tense, the sinews in her neck wound tight, her shoulders hunched up. On impulse, before she has time to think and stop herself, Katara reaches out to touch her face.

Smellerbee's skin is dry and weatherworn, but the fuzz on her cheeks is soft, feels tickly. The face paint is an oily contrast that sticks to Katara's fingertips . She's smearing the markings, blurring the stripes, running her hand over the other girl's cheek as though she could wipe away every trace of hardships. Smellerbee stands confused, but still.

Then she smiles, wide and true.

"Don't worry about me, Katara," she says. "Don't worry."

The smile makes her look younger, softer. It turns the lines into dimples and lights up her eyes from within. Smellerbee's smile is a crack in her defences.

Katara doesn't tell her to smile more, doesn't tell her she will do anything to make sure there is _reason_ to from now on — those are words for lovers or actors on the grand stage, not for dark, empty backyards and girls armed with steel and suspicion—but she makes it a silent promise, stored between Smellerbee's cheek and the pad of her thumb.


End file.
